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Autumn

September 21, 2014

Tired and lonely, half of us witness what the brokenhearted summer is turning into,
but dying like Mandos and vanished like maths forgotten by a starving student of art, we
cannot tell anyone but the voiceless and the multitudes with finger ears and blank stares.
For the sepulchral summer was closed off, musty, and reminiscent of dust from our pasts, and
we longed for new dynasties ruled be Me and All Of Us Alone,
because maybe then the yellow pollution nights of Hastings and Commercial would seem more like real darkness
and we wouldn’t be so afraid of eyelicking perverts peering reptilian from the falsified shadows beneath the Esso
and from between the vehicle laden streets where in sleep screen blackness they sing softly, softly
of how we don’t need to be alone anymore if only we’d listen and come into the light (the
swift engorging sick white light of the Wal Mart Double Pack six ninety nine (they have you curled around their little finger).
If only,
if only the world understood what we’ve seen in the tiredly twirling leaves of the ageing season:
we, the word soaked world weary teenagers who have seen a quarter century pass by before our wet-behind-the-ears eyes—no, see,
we’re older than that, and younger, and what we’ve seen is bigger (and smaller) than the numbers on our Mastercards—
but we no longer have the words to communicate, because language is Dead.
If only Eliza Macintosh had gone to my high school.
She seemed to care about this shit.

A Glimpse of My Room

September 15, 2014

Ten poems from my 365 project.

To the goddess of nature; and with her; and for her.

September 6, 2014

The woods are cold
and dark.
I speak out to the wind,
“Please carry me away from here!”
but nothing stirs the air,
and I remain.

The sea is wild
and vast.
I call out to the sky,
“Reveal to me the way to go!”
but formless clouds are all
the sky displays.

The mountains high
and sharp
observe me plead with rain:
“I beg you, make my form anew!”
but all it does is clean
my ancient skin.

The desert wide
and dry
absorbs my cries to time:
“Please let me be or finish me!”
but time just moves the dunes
and on me rests.

All nature, old
and new,
beats in my aching heart,
and without words she understands;
but still, I am alone,
and stand apart.

The goddess, cruel,
and wise,
breathes words into my veins,
“I’ll carry you and make you new;
and show you where to step.
Just rest, and breathe.

“The woods don’t know
your name;
I’ll whisper it in tongues
the trees will understand, and when
the wind blows warm and light
you’ll find a home.

“The sea is old
and just,
but cannot read your eyes;
I’ll paint them in the coloured skies
and she will then discern
your coming path.

“The mountains are
of earth,
but also touch the skies;
within their roots I’ll plant your seed
and you will grow anew,
in flesh and ghost.

“The desert knows
just sand
and sun, and cannot tell
the time, but I will call its grains
to speak, and they will dance
and sing to you.

“All nature is
my child,
but she is not my slave;
and you are just a tiny part,
of import small
but so, so deep.

“My son, so tired
and weak,
release yourself to find
belief in me within your breast.”
I answer with a sigh,
“I will. I’ll try.”

The Halcyon Philosopher

September 1, 2014

The winds were right, why were the sails
withdrawn to deck to linger?
The sun was bright, and singing slow,
the halcyon philosopher
upon the mast waxed beautiful.

In water green the ship was stalled,
it had no need to anchor,
but faintly seen in silver clouds
the halcyon philosopher
crooned wind and water wait, to wait.

Why did the oars churn glass to froth?
the ocean threw no breakers,
the wind unforced, to gently lift
the halcyon philosopher
to soar as guide before the prow.

The ship drove on, though peace was left
in wake to misremember,
and swiftly drawn, the oars will leave
the halcyon philosopher
in calmer seas to wonder why.

The wrong man the woman, the wrong woman the man

August 30, 2014

As wraith and shadow, I revisited your street,
my jacket black, my eyelids closed, my heart retreated.
I thought of when I pulled you laughing from your home,
to dance and fly in rain and sky those weeks ago.

You’re not holding me back, it just doesn’t feel right,
a spiderweb caught on the arm and brushed aside.

I’m sorry for what I have done to you;
I’m sorry, but my steps have led me through;
I’m sorry, what I’ve done is cold and cruel;
I’m sorry that what you had thought was true was me.

Yet I will carry you when I’m asleep,
I’ll hold you in my arms so tenderly,
I’ll lay you in the chapel carefully
and wonder why I couldn’t look you in the eye
when I was still awake to see its purity.

I was the spider on the web that caught your arm.
I wove the web to love you, not to do you harm,
but as I walk the street that once you called your own,
I see my brokenness and know I should have known.

I’m sorry for the way I left you here;
I’m sorry, I should not have disappeared;
I’m sorry, and it’s been too long, I fear,
to tell you what it is you longed to hear, my love.

I love you, but it’s too late now;
I love you, the fog is coming down;
I love you, see the darkling shroud?;
I love you, and as bells resound I’ll weep.

And I will carry you when I’m asleep,
I’ll hold you in my arms so tenderly,
I’ll lay you in the grave so carefully
and wonder why I couldn’t look you in the eye
when I was still awake to see its purity.

For Aurora, who stood upon my windowsill

August 22, 2014

An apparition in the night: I turned
away and there you stood, a spirit on
my windowsill. An apparition in
the dimly lit recesses of my room.
Why have you come to me, Aurora, in
the secret of the shadows, in the soft
and lonely minutes when my mind is all
but sleeping? What have I to tempt your tongue,
your mind, your eyes, your grace, your lust, your form?
My fingers are too clumsy to redeem
my awkward welcome, but they could improve:
just let me feel your hair once more before
you vanish through my curtain, never more
to chime your movement song across my floor.

A Convenient Republishing Of Some Things I Created

August 18, 2014

Poetry Of Extravagantly Manifold Significance

Click here to download a collection of my poems in a typewritten PDF.

(Contains 7 poems from my 365 project)

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